


A Good Turn

by Arafinwe



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, friendship of a sort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-01
Updated: 2016-09-01
Packaged: 2018-08-12 10:06:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7930588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arafinwe/pseuds/Arafinwe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An unexpected crossing of paths, and Ambarussa intervene in someone's wandering, in a way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Good Turn

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all! :)  
> Just a short little story requested by my younger sister. Feedback is always appreciated, suggestions, anything! Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> This is not meant to be particularly serious, and this is in no way canon-compliant or really timeline-compliant. It is not even map-compliant, although who the heck knows where Daeron ended up :/

“Do you hear that?”

Amras looked up from the arrow he was whittling, his eyes falling on Amrod, who was standing across the clearing staring into the trees intently. 

“The singing again,” he remarked. His brother nodded.

“I do believe the singer is walking in circles.”

Amras chuckled lowly before getting up, stretching, and moving to stand beside Amrod. Somewhere within the trees a lonely voice rang out and faltered. 

“Well, he is a singer after all, and a good one, from the sound of it. We know all about those. Shall we go investigate?” he asked.

“I think yes,” Amrod replied. He stole an amused glance at Amras before fetching his bow and knives from the ground beside their benches. 

 

***

 

Their singer turned out to be a very forlorn-looking traveler, shabbily dressed and exhausted, but of noble bearing of a sort that might have been described as proud were it not for his empty, abject expression. The twins leapt at him from the trees with a mind to surprise him, but the elf merely stopped and looked at them with a blank gaze as though he couldn’t be bothered to care and wanted to be on his way. 

“Who are you?” the stranger asked dryly, making a movement with his arm as though trying to part the two elves blocking his way like a curtain. Amrod bristled and stood firmer, and Amras closed the gap between them. 

“We are Ambarussa. And we oversee these lands.”

“Russet-tops?” The elf blinked at them, looking from one to the other. “Apt.”

“And you?”

At the inquiry, the blank countenance of the stranger suddenly changed. His face seemed to contort in anguish, and his gaze looked past the brothers into either a far-off, distant place or nothing; which they couldn’t tell. When he answered, he spoke slowly in a voice that was heavy with despair. 

“I am the Betrayer. The Oath-breaker.”

“Oh, well. Oath- _takers_ at your service.”

The elf’s eyes suddenly flashed with shock and disdain, and he looked up to face the twins with mounting agitation, clutching for a nonexistant weapon at his side. 

“Oh, no…you are sons of Fëanor! I do not want to deal with you…let me go in peace.”

“Calm yourself. We are only the insignificant ones.”

“I don’t think any of you lot are “insignificant,” he spat, recoiling from them as though out of fear.

“The great hunters. The forest dwellers.”

“The savages, Caranthir has called us,” Amras chuckled.

“I’ll believe it,” the elf muttered.

“And who are you, Oath-breaker?”

The elf glared at them silently with pursed lips, obviously not intending to say another word to the elves standing before him, but when the two identical stares became too much to contend with, he finally sighed and bowed his head in resignation. 

“Daeron,” he said gravely. “Of Doriath.”

The twins looked knowingly at each other before turning back to their companion.

“Your name is known among the Noldor. Moreso than that, Maglor has told us about you.”

“He still speaks about your playing. You made quite an impression on him at the Mereth Aderthad. We understand he was quite taken by your music.”

“Our eldest brother described it as ‘intoxicated’,” added Amras.

“What that means you are welcome to interpret. Nothing is beyond imagination with Maglor and music.”

Daeron stared at them in surprise. The twins could see he was flattered, and it seemed to lessen his anxiety before them, but he still seemed uneasy, especially with what appeared be a warring reaction in his mind to the praise directed at him.

“What use are such words now?” he finally said, shakily. “I’ve cast my harp away. The lute is forever silent. The flute will no longer breathe with me. There is no reason for music anymore.”

“There is quite a story behind your words,” Amrod deduced after a long moment. “And no small amount of despair.” 

Daeron glared at him.

“I’m surprised you haven’t heard, what with your brothers’ wretched paths crossing hers.”

“Well, there is _definitely_ a story there. Our brothers and _her_.” Amras’s tone was not mocking, but the look he received from Daeron could have boiled a river. He did not mind, however. Instead, he nodded at Amrod and turned back to their glaring companion with as welcoming an expression as he could muster. “Come have some supper, Daeron of Doriath. Take some rest. Tell your story.” 

“We can cook, do not worry,” Amrod added, seeing the skeptical look that was shot their way. Resigned, Daeron followed them. If the sons of Feanor were to strangle him over roasted venison, it would be a just fate.

 

***

 

As the sun went down and the three elves sat with their repast around the fire, Daeron, still scowling something fierce, told of the Betrayer, the Oath-breaker, the villain of his own tale and hers. To his surprise, he found Ambarussa rather attentive listeners, and so over roasted pigeon he at least made an effort to reign in his words when he told of Lúthien’s dealings with Celegorm and Curufin, and both Amras and Amrod made an effort not to comment. They prodded alternately at the meat roasting in the fire and and the blackening logs, neither meeting their companion’s eyes, but hearing something in the shaking, angry, and sorrowful voice that evoked in them something of pity.

“So there you have it,” Daeron sighed at long last. “She is gone with him, and I, unfaithful friend, am lost forever.” And so he finished his story.

They ate the rest of their roasted pigeon in complete silence.

 

***

 

When night had long since fallen and there seemed little left to say, Daeron got up from his bench with a heavy sigh. 

“I will leave you now,” he said. Both twins, who had been dozing slightly, stirred and lifted their heads. Amrod stole a quick glance at Daeron, who stood fastening his cloak with shaking fingers. He looked a bit more alive after some rest, but the hopelessness in his eyes seemed to have grown tenfold. Whispering something quickly to Amras and receiving a nod, he motioned to the small home-like structure on the far end of the clearing where he and his brother slept. 

“We aren’t really accustomed to guests, but you are welcome to stay the night.”

“No. I must go,” Daeron said gloomily.

“Back home?”

“Away.”

“Where will you go now?” Amras asked.

“To Ered Luin.”

“And then back again?” 

“Over them.”

“Over the mountains,” Amrod echoed with disbelief.

“Over and further, to be lost forever from all sight and memory among elven folk.”

Amras resisted the urge to snort at him, and Amrod leant his chin upon his fist.

“You’ve planned this extensively.”

Daeron said nothing.

“Is there no chance of changing your mind?”

“None.”

“You know there are kingdoms to pass through.”

Daeron jingled a bag of coins tied at his hip.

“And lords to pay for passage. Yes, I know. A small price for the escape from my shameful existence here. All songs must come to an end, and mine is over.”

Amras and Amrod looked at each other, a sort of understanding passing between them that they ought to do something about this brilliant creature so deep in the throes of regret and despair that he would seek to be lost for all time. They were both thinking about a harp that had once in anguish been shattered along with its master’s heart, about an elf who regretted so much, regretted not stopping Maitimo, oh, how he regretted it, about a beloved brother who could just as easily take on a small army single-handed as come to bitter tears over a felled tree. That the shattered harp sang again was a blessing; they had been lucky, and he had been strong. For some reason, the broken singer before them recalled their Maglor to mind. 

“If you must go, you must go,” Amras conceded. He got up from his bench and crossed the clearing, where, placing a hand on Daeron’s shoulder, he motioned to the East. “Due East of here you will come to our elder brother Caranthir’s land. It is not far. He will let you pass through to Ered Luin. Tell him we sent you, and tell him to give you the directions through the North…this is very important to remember; they are the safest paths. Northeast from Helevorn…though do not be alarmed if it seems you are going Northwest for a long while. That is the correct way. Caranthir will know which ones we mean. He’ll direct you exactly.”

Daeron inclined his head in thanks and farewell, the slightest hint of silver tears glistening in his eyes. 

“Farewell, russet-tops, sons of Fëanor. This was unexpected, but I thank you. You will remember me, but I wish you would not.”

 

***

 

“You’ve directed him straight to Maedhros and Maglor,” Amrod said when Daeron was out of sight, impressed with Amras’s finesse in such dealings. In the firelight he could see the crafty smile that had appeared on his brother’s face, and he mirrored it in turn.

“If Caranthir understands my meaning, I have. And Tyelko and Curvo, too, if we believe his story about what befell his ‘fair lady Lúthien’ at the hands of our brothers. No way are they still in Nargothrond.”

“Oh. Valar.”

“Maitimo will keep them from tearing each other apart. And Makalaure will keep him from passing out of the pages of time and memory, or whatever he said.”

“Mm. Well, I think we’ve done a good turn, Ambarussa. We know the minds of these great singers intimately: as fragile as they are strong and brilliant. I’d hate to see one lost forever, even one from Doriath.”

“I don’t think Maglor would forgive us the loss of this one’s music, either.”

“Minstrels,” Amrod muttered, and shook his head fondly. “Loremasters. Singers. I hope someone takes as much care of our Maglor should he ever find himself wandering in regret and despair.”

Amras simply smiled and nodded.


End file.
